


If You Ever Come Back

by BigDeacEnergy



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Brian is just trying his best, Chrissie Mullen (mentioned) - Freeform, Drunk!Roger, Emotional!Roger, M/M, Pining!Roger, Robert Deacon (mentioned), Small mention of blood, Songfic, Strong Language, Stubborn!John, Veronica Tetzlaff (mentioned) - Freeform, dealor - Freeform, joger, protective!Freddie, small injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 19:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19447720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigDeacEnergy/pseuds/BigDeacEnergy
Summary: John Deacon is standing with his suitcase but he can't step on the train whilst, across town, Roger Taylor wishes he could only wish that they were over as opposed to it being their unhappy truth.~John Deacon and Roger Taylor's relationship has been turbulent for the last year. Can they work it out when it matters the most?~Based entirely on the song 'If You Ever Come Back' by The Script.





	If You Ever Come Back

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I am Niamh. You may have seen me knocking about in the comments section of Dealor fics for a while as a guest. I've now finally made myself an account and have decided to try my hand at writing my own fic.  
> This is my first Queen fic but not my first fic ever (I write Stranger Things fanfiction under the user @PiratesAndGlitter on Wattpad) and I am looking forward to you all reading it. I hope you enjoy...as much as you can, anyway. Sad and angst has always been my brand.  
> Apologies in advance, you are about to experience my far too long sentences that I need to learn to cut down.  
> I would recommend listening to the song 'If You Ever Come Back' by The Script before reading this as this work it based entirely on that wonderful song.  
> Happy (or sad) reading!

The wind heaved a great and heavy sigh as it raced through the few decaying leaves that still remained, desperately clinging onto the trees with all of their strength on a chilly autumn evening.The day was dreary and lifeless, nothing but grey skies and distant thunder clouds that threatened a heavy, but yet uncertain, downpour. “A typical British day” John thought, chuckling to himself miserably, whilst dragging the collar of his jacket further up his neck to beat the cold. Meanwhile, his alternative hand was clutching onto the handle of an old, battered and bedraggled suitcase. 

The man had been standing on the platform of the train station for almost an hour and a half now, clearly experiencing an interior dilemma regarding whether or not he should leave. Trains he had told himself he would step onto had been and gone and yet he remained rooted to the spot, shivering more intensively with every passing moment as he grew colder and colder. John reached up to untuck his long, chestnut hair from behind his ears as he always did when he wanted to hide his face from curious onlookers. However, his fingers were met only with the surrounding bitter air since the man had cut all of his hair off little more than a year ago - something he was still struggling to get accustomed to. It was moments such as these that had the bassist questioning his own actions; why had he made such an audacious decision that had now eliminated the coping mechanism which he greatly depended on in order to conceal himself from fame and repress the pain he felt so deeply within? He knew himself well, he knew he could be just as impulsive as he was passionate and perhaps that’s why he and Roger had worked so well for so long but were now falling apart at the seams.

The two of them were very similar in many ways but worlds apart in others and in the early days, this was the basis of passionate and fascinating discussions. Lately, however, these conversations had turned to screaming matches, both of them hoping to have the last, brutal and painful word. The blond had always been louder - there was no question about that - but they both were all too aware that the words John would use to fight back, though infinitely quieter, would cut deeper than anything Roger could ever even dream of saying.

The tracks suddenly began to thrum with the electricity that signalled the oncoming arrival of a train and John decided that it was now or never. He had to make his decision in the next few minutes or else he never would. 

The heart that thundered within his chest begged of him not to step onto the train and with every surge of blood throughout his body, it called out to him to go home to the one he loved and try and make it work. Yet his head told a very different story. During the last couple of weeks in which he crashed at Freddie’s house, John had been in contact with Veronica and she had asked him to come back to her and to Robert, promising that the two of them would welcome him back with open arms. His mind had sternly informed him that that was where he truly belonged.

A gust of warm air engulfed the man as the doors of the overcrowded and stuffy train opened and attempted to entice him within. The hand that was wrapped around his suitcase began to tremble with anxiety and anguish as thoughts whirled around within his head faster than the jets they used to take them between destinations on their world tours.

After a moment that seemed to last for an eternity, John’s right foot was lifted from the ground to take a step without him even realising quite what he was doing. Was the step going to land forwards and bring him into his new life or backwards and return him into the arms of his lover? Only the heavens above held the answer.

Two Weeks Earlier:

An explosive boom echoed throughout the halls of the mansion as Roger watched the love of his life slam the door and storm out of their home without so much as a backward glance. The man ran his hands through his blond tresses and debated whether or not he should go after the bassist but, in the end, he thought better of it. John had done this before but he always returned when he had cooled down so this wouldn’t be any different, right? Besides, the younger man wasn’t the only one who was infuriated and Roger believed that an hour or so apart from him would do them both and their relationship a world of good.

The drummer retreated to their shared room, hurling every door in sight shut with a greater force than he had ever used even to hammer away at his instrument. He was never one to approach his emotions in a meaningful way and he did all that he knew how to do to relieve his rage. The man began destroying the ornaments John had bought for the two of them over the years that littered the surfaces of their bedroom until all the fight had drained out of him. Subsequently, he collapsed into a pitiful heap on the shard-covered floor and let out a heaving sob. 

Roger knew all too well that his partner and himself had been teetering on the edge of a cliffside for months, waiting for the inevitable fall to come and swallow them up whole. However, that did nothing to soften the blow as his heart shattered within his chest as easily as their statues and photographs had done when they had collided with the floor. 

“Deacy,” The blond moaned out for no one but the silence to hear, agony lacing his voice like venom and he clutched onto a photograph of the two of them taken once upon a time and long ago in Japan. “Come back.”

Late evening grew into night and the house became enveloped in darkness but Roger never moved, not even when the broken glass had long since drawn his blood. He continued to call out to his lover, wondering how a simple miscommunication - Roger could have sworn they had said be ready to leave for seven whilst John was left fuming by the door, all alone at half past six - had come to this. Had the drummer been capable of feeling anything other than sheer and utter devastation, he may have laughed at the irony as a song written by the very man he loved had once described this exact situation. If only he’d have learned by now.

The heartbroken man had always felt his emotions more deeply than most and so he remained on the ground, feeling hopeless and destroyed, until he was all cried out. It was only then that he could think, and subsequently act, more rationally.

As the tears dried on his face and his breath returned to him - something he’d have believed half an hour ago would never happen - Roger pushed himself into a sitting position. His piercing, sapphire eyes wandered around the room, flicking from each broken item to the next in quick succession and shame flooded his veins. Reaching out, the man began to collect the broken items that lay disheveled on the ground, hoping to salvage all that he could. After all, the objects contained memories of the love of his life that he would never want to lose and he needed to make this right before John came home. Because he was coming home. Definitely. He was!

It took the drummer the better part of two hours to clear their shared bedroom of the debris of his rage but he never stopped to take a break nor to look at the clock. He didn’t want to know how long it had been since his boyfriend had walked out because all that would do would make him question why the fuck he wasn’t home yet; he’d never been gone for this long before.

With a heavy heart, Roger disposed of the strange statue of a rooster playing the fiddle - one that he had always hated but had, for some reason, always been a favourite of John’s - as it was beyond repair. A couple of frames joined the statue but not before Roger had rescued the photos they had once contained and held them close to his chest, the way he wished he could hold the one whose laughing image they displayed.

The blond ran around the house like the madman he truly felt as though he had become, cleaning every room and tidying everything in his path. All the while he told himself that he was preparing their home for John’s return but, in reality, he was doing everything he could to distract himself from the fact that it hadn’t happened yet and the other man was still nowhere to be found. John was as vacant as if he had never even been there at all.

Eventually, a freshly showered Roger had bled every distraction he could think of completely dry as, even in a mansion, there is only so much that can be done. The man perched himself on his lonely bed feeling colder than he should have given that the central heating was at its maximum. Those blue orbs darted around the room, looking steadfastly anywhere but at the clock that would have informed him that the time was now four in the morning. His deft, calloused hands ran in a swift cycle of up and down and up along the silk of their bed covers. The blond’s fingertips lingered on his lover’s side of the bed as if clinging to where the man had slept not twenty-four hours previously could somehow bring him closer.

As Roger could stand his heartache no longer, he collapsed into John’s side of the bed, bringing the covers up so that silk grazed against his cheek as though it were a gentle caress from the man he loved and the tears began to flow once more. The heart in his chest somehow trudged on and on yet the drummer couldn’t understand how that was possible as it could only ever beat for the man who was no longer sharing his bed.

The morning light arrived before sleep did but search as hard as he may within, the drummer could find no motivation to vacate the bed that was providing him with his only comfort. Roger knew that the moment he made a start to the day would be the moment he would have to admit to himself that John hadn’t come home all night and that was something he couldn’t imagine ever being emotionally ready for.

The man felt as though he had been carved open like an animal at slaughter and his heart had been ripped straight from his chest as he watched on, powerless to stop the agony from erupting within and scorching his insides until it was as though there was nothing left of them. Not a single complete thought had the possibility of entering his mind before it was wiped mercilessly away to be replaced by nothing but “John, John, John”. 

Roger felt as cold as the October frost that glistened in the light of the pale sun as it coated the gardens surrounding their home. Bringing the covers even further up, the drummer placed them over his head in order to block out the sunlight that shone far too brightly and unforgivingly for a broken man to appreciate. However, even being completely submerged beneath the silk that had warmed him on countless nights prior, Roger couldn’t block out the chill without John’s strong, protective arms wrapped around him and holding him tightly against his toned chest.

“Come home.” A devastated phantom of a voice that barely disrupted the silence escaped from the man’s bitten and lonely lips as he tried to persuade someone who wasn’t even in the same room.

The remainder of the day drifted on by yet Roger didn’t notice a thing besides the fact that the bed suddenly seemed larger and more uncomfortable than it ever had before. The man’s big, beautiful eyes were exhausted and aching the way they usually were following a wild party hosted by their management that went on for far too long, yet the drummer resisted every urge to allow them to fall shut. He refused to let himself fall headlong into the oblivion that could only be achieved through sleep as he was loath to miss the moment his boyfriend stepped back through their door with that radiant gap-toothed grin on his face that Roger loved so much. The blond was eager to welcome the other man back with a smile and an embrace, as if the bassist had never even been gone.

It was only midway through the second full day of John’s absence that Roger was finally able to remove himself from the bed that served only as a sick reminder of how alone he truly was. The man wandered aimlessly through the home he had never expected to live in without his love by his side with no idea of how he was to spend the endless time that stretched on before him. 

The chill that had taken root deep within his soul the moment that the sun had walked out of his life remained, freezing him more and more with every solitary second. It had only been somewhat dimmed by John’s favourite, ancient jumper that he had left behind in his haste to leave that Roger hadn’t taken off from the moment he found it crumpled by their bed. The sleeves were too long on him and they got in the blond’s way a little but it smelled like John and you would have had to cut the thing from Roger’s cold, dead body if you ever wanted him to remove it.

Without realising where he was headed, Roger had reached the front door and his blurred gaze locked onto it the best he could as anguish momentarily blazed within his chest before the surrounding ice extinguished it. The drummer found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the place he had last seen the love of his life and, as he blinked, he could have sworn he almost saw his silhouette still standing in the doorway. 

Almost.

Roger’s knees began to buckle as the sobs that came straight from his gut threatened to overtake him once more. Reaching out in order to catch himself before he toppled to the ground, his hands landed on the surface of the antique table that stood proudly by the door and he sensed something cold beneath his grasp. The drummer finally dragged his gaze from the shadow that was only ever a figment of his imagination and discovered that what lay beneath his fingertips was John’s house key. Roger clutched onto the key as if it were a lifeline and glanced back at the door which he discovered had not been left on the latch.

In a moment that saw all rational thought and sense thrown out of the window, the man fled outside, utterly convinced that the only reason John wasn’t home was because he had been locked out. 

“Deacy!” The blond screamed joyously with all of the power his strong voice held as he sprinted down their street, his rapid eyes roaming everywhere they could for the other man. “Deacy! I have your key! I have it! You can come home!”

It was only the twitch of some curtains as a disapproving neighbour glanced outwards onto the road that had Roger snapping out of his hysteria and that brought him back down to Earth. The realisation struck him like a wrecking ball into a skyscraper that it had been almost two and a half days that John had been gone and the man would have knocked on the door to be let back in as opposed to standing out in the frost-covered street. Thank God Roger had already stumbled back inside - and placed a spare key under the mat - by the time the even greater revelation collided with him that, though the bassist’s house key remained, the one to his car had been intentionally removed meaning that John had known exactly what he was doing when he left it behind and it was no mistake. The knowledge that the man he loved beyond anything in this world had no intention of returning to him had Roger dropping to the ground as though he were a marionette whose strings had been cut and he lay there barely breathing, feeling more dead than truly alive.

It was a couple of days following the discovery of his beloved’s abandoned key that the brokenhearted man finally remembered to eat something. Roger mindlessly traipsed through the kitchen that stored far too much food for one lonely man to ever be capable of consuming. He ripped random boxes from any and all shelves and pulled the first thing that reached his hand from the fridge until he had enough to qualify as a barely passable meal. Everything that the once-couple had purchased came in portion sizes for two but the drummer wouldn’t have had it any other way. Every damn meal he had ever cooked in that kitchen had been for him and John and not even the Lord above could have forced him to change that now. 

Emotionlessly, Roger laid the two carefully presented plates across from each other on the counter and began to eat alone. However, despite the proximity of the other place setting, the man’s sapphire eyes never once glanced at the chair facing him that was now to remain vacant perhaps forever. Once the meal was over, the drummer discarded the - one entirely uneaten and other barely touched - plates of food and strolled out of the kitchen with his head held high and his heart nowhere to be found.

More than a week and a half without John strolled on by but Roger could have sworn it was a whole lifetime. The man hadn’t heard a single word from the bassist nor did he know where in the world he currently was but, hey, at least the scratches from the broken glass from that fateful night had finally healed. Thank God for small mercies. 

The drummer was lying on the ground in a pitiful, shapeless heap in their music room as he listened to John’s favourite records on repeat when the sound of the phone ringing blared through the house and startled the man into action.

With a racing heart, Roger flew down the corridors of the mansion, sprinting faster than he ever had before in his life and flung himself at the phone.

“Deacy? Oh my god, John. John I miss you, are you on your way home? Oh my god, I have missed you. I love you so much, baby, I swear I do. I-” The blond blurted as he clutched the phone as closely to his ear as he physically could without forcing it beneath his skin.

“John?” A confused voice that certainly didn’t belong to the man he loved interrupted curiously on the other end of the line. “It’s not Deacy, Rog. It’s me.”

In an instant, Roger felt the heart that had been stitched back together by the sound of the phone ringing splinter, crack and collapse on itself once more. “What do you want, Brian?” The man hissed at his oldest friend.

“What were you talking about? Where’s Deacy? What’s going on?” The guitarist queried, his voice becoming more unsure and hurt by the second but Roger couldn’t bring himself to care.

“He’s gone out. Nothing to worry about. Now, why are you calling me?”

“Oh,” Brian replied, his voice uncertain as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue, “Well, I was just calling to let you know Chrissie has gone to her parents’ for the night and I was wondering if you wanted to hit the town…but if you’re not feeling up to it…”

“No, no. I’m sorry for jumping down your throat, Bri. A night out sounds like exactly what I need right now.”

There was a moment of silence from Brian’s end of the line before he finally spoke again. “Are you sure? Is something going on with Deacy? Wait, you’re not fighting again, are you?”

“No, not at all. Everything is fine here. I’ll see you around nine.” The drummer had barely finished rambling out before he slammed the phone back down on the receiver before his friend could backtrack any further.

Roger spent the rest of the evening attempting to rid himself of the grime that a fortnight of self-inflicted solitary confinement had left him with. The final product was certainly a sight to behold with his blond hair finally brushed and styled, clad in black from his head to his feet and dark sunglasses covering the eyes that lacked their usual sparkle. Throughout the duration of the self-styling, Roger had steadfastly refused to notice how the wardrobes were significantly emptier than they had been less than two weeks prior. 

As the man wandered into the lounge room he and his love had spent countless occasions in, he found Brian already perched on one of the couches and ready to go. The curly-haired man gave Roger a disapproving look as he walked towards him. “You should really lock that, you know.” The guitarist chastised as he gestured in the direction of Roger’s front door with his thumb. “I could have been in here and ran off with all of your stuff and you wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

The drummer glanced around the room before muttering: “There’s nothing of value left here anymore.”

Brian raised a dark eyebrow, unconvinced as he looked towards Queen’s gold disks that hung on the walls; an expensive guitar that stood in the corner of the room and the brand new, pristine television that lay at the edge. However, the man knew better than to question his friend and, instead, rose to his feet and made to leave with Roger trailing along behind him in silence. 

It was only after the two had all but exited the mansion that either of them spoke again following Brian switching off the light in Roger’s hallway. “Don’t!” The blond snapped and he flicked the switch back to on.

“Oh come on! There’s going to be no one in, at least take the door off the bloody latch, mate.” 

“I can’t,” The drummer mumbled helplessly as he set off towards the awaiting town car, “He doesn’t have his key.”

“Don’t the two of you have a spare?” Brian shot back but his blond friend said nothing as he clambered into the car.

Roger downed one drink after another until his curly-haired friend was begging him to stop and he couldn’t see nor walk straight. The drummer paid no mind to the desperate pleading of the man beside him as he ordered yet another double whiskey shot and threw it back in no time at all. 

“Fucking stop it, Roger. You’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up.” Brian hissed in his ear, a fire burning within his eyes however its kindling wasn’t fury but concern for his oldest friend who seemed to be on a mission to drink himself to death. 

Said friend however, was fuelled by rage. “Stop telling me what to fucking do!” Roger spat though his words were slurred and scarcely intelligible but Brian was smart enough to figure it out from the context. He had once been a PhD student, after all.

“You’ve had enough, Rog. I’m taking you home.”

“I can’t go back there, Brian.” The drummer sobbed as he collapsed against his friend, the inferno that had burned so bright now extinguished by the sorrow in which he was drowning. “Not without Deacy. I can’t live without him. I can’t live my life alone.”

In an instant, the guitarist threw his arm around the blond for both physical and emotional support. “Fuck, Rog. What’s happened?”

“He left me. He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”

“What? When?”

“About two weeks ago. We had a fight, he left, haven’t seen him since. I don’t even know where he is, I don’t even know if he’s alive, Brian!”

Roger witnessed as a solemn look of recognition and understanding overtook the face of his best friend. “I think I might.” The guitarist informed him in a low, steady voice.

“What?” The blond snapped as the subdued, drunken gears in his brain struggled to understand what his friend was saying.

“I think I might know where he is.” The guitarist repeated.

Roger sat up straighter, more alert as he felt the colour drain from his handsome face. “Where is he, Brian? Where’s John?”

“Listen, Rog.” The guitarist began slowly, willing his friend not to do anything rash, “I’m not even sure if I’m right about this. I called Freddie a few days ago to see if he wanted to check out the new art exhibit with me but he told me that he couldn’t. He said he had a friend who’d been over for about a week who needed some help. I said he could bring the friend along but he declined. Roger, I don’t even know if it’s Deacy - it could be anyone - but the timeline fits.”

“Freddie’s?” The drummer queried.

“Maybe.” Brian responded but it was too little, too late as the blond had already shot up from his seat and stormed towards the exit of the bar on unsteady legs. The taller man had wanted to chase him down but, ever the gentleman, he couldn’t leave Roger’s tab unpaid and so he settled it. By the time the guitarist was outside, his volatile, devastated friend and the town car that had brought them there were nowhere to be seen.

Anxiety gnawed like a starving predator at Roger as he slammed the car door shut, told the driver to leave him and ran to the front door of his former flatmate and best friend’s home. The blond pounded furiously on the door, hoping against hope that the love of his life would be the one to open it and take him into his arms once more.

The drummer was only dismayed for a second that Freddie was the one to answer before he pushed the emotion to the side. “Let me see him.” He begged of his friend but his voice held no level of authority as desperation and sorrow reigned supreme.

“He doesn’t want to see you, dear.” The singer replied gently, his chocolate brown eyes full of pity and woe as he stared at the man who was, on all levels but romantically, his soulmate. 

“Let me see him, Fred.”

The man before him shook his head. “I’m sorry, Roger. He knew you would eventually figure out that he was here and he made me promise to not let you in. I won’t betray his trust like that. Besides, you’re clearly drunk and I don’t think it would be wise for the two of you to talk right now.”

“He’s my boyfriend! You can’t keep him hidden from me.” The drummer shouted as frustration at being so close to the love of his life yet still unable to see him overtook his senses. 

Freddie gave a worried glance behind him into his house as he stepped out and shut the door. “I’m just trying to do what’s best for Deacy right now, darling, and I am sorry that’s hurting you. I love you and I would never want to see you suffer but my priority at this moment is the man who has been crying on my shoulder for these last two weeks.” 

“Can’t you see that he’s my priority too? He always has been from the moment I met him even if I have been shit at proving that to him. Let me do it now, Freddie, let me prove it to him.”

“I’m sorry, dear. You’re wasting your time here tonight. He’s emotionally exhausted and he’s done with everything.”

“You mean he’s done with me? That’s what you’re trying to tell me? You’re trying to tell me that he’s never coming back to me? Well, you’re fucking wrong, Fred. You’re fucking wrong and I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone!” Roger screamed into the night air, the hysteria he had experienced days ago returning and having an explosive reaction with the alcohol he had consumed. “People told me years ago he’d never love me back and they were wrong! People told me I’d never make it as a rock ’n roll star and they are fucking wrong! Hell, people used to say the world was flat and weren’t they fucking wrong?! You’re wrong now too, Freddie!”

The drunk blond lunged towards the person, who hours previously, had been his closest friend but was now nothing more than a barrier between him and John. Just before his fist collided with Freddie’s face, the guitarist had appeared at his shoulder and clutched onto his arm, preventing him from meeting his target. “Take it easy, Roger.” Brian instructed sternly, never relinquishing his hold on the fuming blond.

“Let me go!” The drummer hissed but no one paid him an ounce of attention.

“Thank you, Brian.” The singer spoke calmly, nodding his head in appreciation at the tallest of the men who responded with a similar action. “Now, I shall be heading back inside. I trust that you can get him to bed, darling?” 

The guitarist only nodded again as he steered the seething drunk away, shouting a: “Night, Fred!” over his shoulder. 

It was just as Brian was opening the door of the taxi he had arrived in to forcefully shove Roger inside it that the drummer glanced back and observed their friend still standing by the door of his home. The man took full opportunity over Brian’s slightly slackened grip on him and wrenched his arm free then ran back towards the house. 

As he reached the front steps, Freddie recoiled as if he was still expecting a fist to fly at his face however all he found was a distraught and dejected blond gazing up at him with his large eyes as wide as saucers.

“Will you give this to him, Fred?” Roger asked, his voice a broken whisper as he held out the palm of his hand, a solitary, small key glowing as it reflected the light of the large house. “He left it behind.”

The singer stared at the small, metal object for a moment before he took it from his friend with an echo of a mournful smile. “Of course I will. Now get yourself some sleep.”

The blond did as he was bid and trudged back towards the taxi, every agonising step dragging him further away from his own heart which he left somewhere in that house behind him. 

Roger emerged from his bedroom the following morning with a powerful hangover and nothing but memories to hold onto. The man had slept on his love’s side of the bed once more, however this was no longer something out of the ordinary - his own side of the bed remained cold and untouched since the night John had walked out. 

The drummer fumbled down the staircase and into his kitchen, desperate for a cup of tea to wash the lingering taste of expensive whiskey from his mouth. Upon his graceless arrival, the disheveled man discovered his curly-haired friend already pottering around. 

The guitarist started at the sound of Roger’s subtle cough and span to face him with a guilty look playing at his facial features. “Sorry I didn’t ask you but I slept on your couch last night. I was worried you were going to choke on your own vomit and I couldn’t leave you like that.”

“Not a problem.” The blond responded, a slight feeling of gratitude warming his frozen heart ever so slightly.

“Tea?” Brian asked and Roger nodded in response. “The kettle’s already boiled. Don’t worry, it was standing on the hob already when I got up. I haven’t been rooting through your cupboards.” The man ensured him however the drummer already knew perfectly well that the kettle had been on the oven already, having put it there himself days ago so that he could boil it as soon as John stepped back through the door to welcome him back into their home. He had even left the house on one of those agonising days to purchase boxes upon boxes of the bassist’s favourite tea that he himself had never been a fan of in order to ensure his love had enough upon his return. Yet the kettle had remained stone cold.

“No,” The blond sighed, hip-checking his friend out of the way when Brian attempted to put one of his usual tea bags into the mug and then reached for a different one.

“Yorkshire?” The taller man announced, confused. “Rog, you don’t drink Yorkshire Tea and why the hell do you have so many boxes? It’s only Deacy that…” Brian swiftly shut himself up as the situation became clear to him and instead, busied himself with finishing their drinks and doing his best to not make eye contact with the dispirited drummer. 

The two men sat in silence across from one another at the kitchen counter as they sipped on their steaming brews. Roger was rather proud of himself for not barking at his older friend to get his unwelcome arse out of John’s seat. Brian unfurled the morning newspaper that had been dropped at Roger’s door and began to half-interestedly meander through the pages. “Vicious is dominating the headlines again. Seems as if he has really gone off the rails now. Not that he hadn’t before, mind you. That poor girl.” The guitarist mumbled under his breath as he flicked through.

Roger, however, wasn’t listening to a word his friend was saying as he stared blankly into the milky depths of the mug he clutched onto with both hands. A mug that belonged to John. “Do you think he’s coming back?” The drummer blurted suddenly, startling the older man and causing him to jolt and spill some of the tea down his chest.

“Do I think John’s coming home?”

“Do you?” The blond urged, raising his pleading eyes to meet those of his friend’s. 

“I don’t know, mate.” The guitarist responded as he uncomfortably ran his free hand down the back of his neck now that the newspaper had been abandoned. “Maybe? He probably just needs some time. You know the two of you have had your issues this last year.”

“I don’t need you to tell me what’s wrong with my relationship, Brian. I need you to tell me that he’s coming home and that we can fix this. I love him more than I have ever loved anyone; I can’t lose him.”

“I can’t promise you that. I’m sorry but I won’t lie to you and tell you that everything will be alright because I don’t know what it is that Deacy wants. He is the only person that knows whether or not he thinks this is worth fighting for.”

“We are worth fighting for! I know that we are because what we have, when it’s good, God, it’s the best thing in this world. Even in our worst times, it’s better than living without him. I would give anything for him to be here right now even if he was giving me the cold shoulder. John being in this house, furious with me and giving me a hard time for it is better than being apart from him.”

The guitarist glanced down at his younger friend with sorrow displayed plainly in his eyes as he responded almost apologetically: “Maybe Deacy doesn’t see it that way. Maybe this way is better for him.”

“Christ, Brian.” The blond man almost wailed as he rambled on, slumped on the table with his head in his hands and his tea going cold as it was forgotten about. “I just wish I could still only wish it was over because then it wouldn’t be, you know? If I still had the ability to wish he’d leave me then that would mean he was still here. Am I making any sense? I just wish…”

The older man ran a soothing hand along the shoulder of his oldest friend as he sighed. “You are making sense, mate. You really are.”

Across town, a train pulled out of the station carrying with it a man whom intended to begin a new life with the one suitcase worth of his belongings and a bass guitar standing next to him. The brunet point-blank refused to remember all the little things he would miss about a man he had loved. If you’d have questioned him on the tears that were rolling down his face in a steady, heartbroken stream, well, he would have told you that they were nothing but the remnants of the rainwater from the faint drizzle that had begun as he stepped out of the cold and onto the train.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come and chat with me at any point on Tumblr, I am @roger-taylor-swift and I am always in need of new friends!


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